Bring Him Home
by Fumm95
Summary: Duncan's thoughts during the Battle of Ostagar. Inspired by the song of the same name from the musical Les Miserable.


**A/N: I like to think that Alistair was not alone in seeing the relationship he shared with Duncan as a father-son sort, and that in spite of what Duncan had to do as a warden (I'm mostly thinking about killing people who won't undergo the Joining), he does care for the lives of individual people in a general sense.**

 **Also, the flashback was going to be much longer, but I decided to make it a companion fic before it overpowered this one.**

 **This fic was originally posted on tumblr and can also be found on AO3.**

* * *

Even as the battle raged, Duncan found himself distracted from the fight around him by watching the Tower of Ishal, and not only to await Teyrn Loghain's attack. In spite of the signal, the top remained stubbornly dim and he could not suppress the stab of worry he felt. The tower was not distant from their camp. Something must have happened. Had darkspawn made it so far? Were Alistair and Annaliese-?

For a second, he froze, an image of their broken bodies - both too young for the glassy eyes and suffering in their faces - swimming before his eyes. He blinked and the corpses in his vision disappeared, replaced by a pained, living face and he was not quick enough to prevent the hurlock's axe from falling, cutting off the terrified man's voice mid-scream.

Beside him, a soldier faltered, mouth falling open in horror at his slain comrade and Duncan parried a blow that would have run the other man through. "Focus!" he warned, both for himself and those around him, putting aside the guilt at his death for later, if there was a later. The chorus of voices around him caught the word as a rallying cry and he heaved a sigh of relief as the last of the wave of darkspawn fell to the re-energized troops. Blessed Andraste, all of them sounded so young, were too young to be worried about fighting darkspawn and saving Ferelden. Were about the same age as the two Wardens he and the king had sent to the Tower…

He carefully cut off that line of thought and directed his attention back to the fields. But even as his eyes sought and found King Cailan, confident and tall, sword gleaming in the torches that lit up the night, in bonfires that marked fallen darkspawn, he remembered the half-brother, so similar yet so different.

* * *

It should not have been a surprise to see that the only templar recruit bold enough to participate in the tourney held in his honor was the young man who so resembled Maric, especially given the disapproving looks the Chantry members directed in his general direction. The recruit in question ignored the silent reproach with an ease that spoke of years of practice, and Duncan wondered just how long he had spent with them. Surely not so many years? He was only about 20, if he recalled correctly, and even eager recruits didn't start any earlier than 12 or 13.

When the bouts started, Duncan's attention was caught once more by the lad. His form was decent and movements natural, as he might have expected from a son of Maric, but his skill bespoke of only recent training, not the years of practice he would have received at Denerim, _should_ have received from Arl Eamon. Yet, his focus was more on his attitude. In the ring, facing an opponent with swords drawn, his face was alight, animated, a grin curving lips that sorely needed to smile more.

And he was good. Not the best, not by far compared to the likes of Ser Talrew and Ser Kalvin, but to even hold his own against templars known throughout Ferelden for as long as he did was an incredible achievement. More telling was his response to each duel: humble after each victory, of which there were more than a few, and cheerful after each defeat, accepting advice and good-natured ribbing with a sheepish grin, so contrasting to the morose expression he wore before the start of the tourney.

Making up his mind, remembering the longing look on the boy's face when he saw the Grey Warden, Duncan waited until the final bout finished, thanked the Grand Cleric and Knight-Commander for organizing the affair, then left in search of the recruit.

Even with the boy's eagerness, obtaining permission to recruit him to the Wardens was a tricky affair. The Grand Cleric was extremely reluctant to allow him to leave, though there was no love lost between the two. In the end, conscripting the young man left no further avenues of complaint, though Duncan was fairly certain it would cause tension between the Chantry and the Wardens in the future.

Alistair's smile when it became official and he was told to gather his possession and say his final farewells seemed to make it all worth the effort, however. He watched the boy walk off with a new spring to his step and could not suppress the sudden wave of affection he felt.

And in that moment, he realized two things. Firstly, that both Fiona and Maric, if he was still alive, would likely never forgive him for conscripting Alistair into the Grey Wardens, for needlessly contaminating their son with the Blight. And secondly, as he watched the boy race ahead with a bright laugh and a brighter expression, already asking questions and speaking more than he had all day, that he would never regret his decision. Not if it meant Alistair's freedom.

* * *

The roar of yet another wave of darkspawn caught Duncan's attention and he turned towards the stampeding horde, catching King Cailan's eye as he did so. Even the ceaselessly carefree man looked concerned, his eyes flickering towards the still-dim tower before staring down the incoming beasts with determination. They had lost men, but he could see the steely resolve in the young king's gaze. They would hold until the signal was given, until Teyrn Loghain's men joined the fight.

"Trebuchets, on my mark! Archers, when they are in range, fire at will!" The typically exuberant voice was deathly serious, almost grim, as it carried across the battlefield. He could see the troops nearby watching Cailan with new respect as he continued with a touch of his usual charismatic optimism, "The Blight stops here! For Ferelden!"

As if on cue, as the responding cheer echoed against the stone walls, a sudden burst of light caught his attention and Duncan felt some of the tension leave him. The tower was lit. Whatever else had happened, _they_ had made it, and with Loghain's help, the army could at least push the darkspawn back, hold off to fight another day if the archdemon remained hidden.

"The signal! We have them now!" The cry was infectious and the soldiers roared, fighting with renewed vigor as they awaited their reinforcements.

One long minute dragged into two, then three. Several feet away, a man no older than 25 fell with a scream, pierced by a gundark's sword. Duncan twisted, decapitating it swiftly, but instantly, another took its place. Around him, the warriors were being overrun by the never-ending swarm of creatures.

"Duncan!" He whipped around as Tarimel fought to him, clutching his side, where a deep gash poured blood. "Grigor is down! We cannot hold much longer. Where is Teyrn Loghain?"

He swallowed, willing away the sudden pain at the announcement. He could grieve later. They had to focus, to keep strong until…

Another cry of pain and both Wardens turned to see a figure fall to the ground, her helmet split from the force of the axe blow she had received. He recognized her, Duncan registered numbly. Just a few hours ago, she had been laughing with some of the younger Wardens, asking about the recruitment process, her long blond hair free of blood and glinting in the light of the campfire. So vibrant, so eager, so full of life. He had not thought to ask for her name, had been too busy planning the battle.

The battle that, without backup, had turned into a slaughter. The realization dawned on him slowly, a pit of ice forming in his gut as he turned to his brother-in-arms.

No words were necessary and the elf swore viciously. "That- blasted- _traitor_ ," he spat, hacking at a blight wolf with a dagger, the other hand still pressed against his side. The beast fell with a howl and Tarimel scowled, a flash of pain flickering across his face. "We can't hold them off indefinitely. Our best hope is to retreat."

Duncan shook his head and ducked under a wild attack. "They'll overrun the camp unless we can slay the Archdemon and end this." There was no need to finish his statement; they both knew how it would end.

"Mythal and your Maker protect you," was all the other Warden said before taking off at a run. Duncan blocked a blow, pushing the hurlock back before turning, and froze.

Time seemed to stop as an ogre lumbered forward, headed straight for King Cailan. Tarimel, already by the king's side and moving to attack, was thrown aside in an instant, blade flying out of his grasp, and did not move.

Duncan scarcely felt the sting of a sword pierce his side, didn't react as he was pushed roughly out of harm's way and the gurlock's blood spurted onto him. He could only watch, paralyzed, as the giant beast grabbed Cailan in a fist, as if the man were no more than a rag doll. He could not look away when the ogre roared directly in his face, when the man cried out as the fist clenched, as blood spattered the ground, as the king was flung aside, landing unceremoniously only a small distance away.

He stared at the man he had promised to guide, had advised for years, who lay, impossibly still, on dirt slick with his own blood, and the grief, the worry, the exhaustion, even the Siren song of the Calling in the back of his mind were replaced by rage, hot and blinding, at the ogre roaring in triumph. Without thinking, he was on his feet, daggers in hand, and sprinting towards the beast. He leapt with a cry, righteous fury rushing over him as he felt the metal cut through flesh, stabbing again and again until the beast fell with a howl.

As the storm subsided, fury extinguishing as though doused by ice, Duncan sat up, cringing as the wound in his side protested the movement. He was losing blood fast, he knew, and he staggered back to his feet, and back to the side of the king, the _friend_ , he had failed.

Suddenly weak legs gave way and he fell to his knees, putting out a hand to keep himself up. Around him, the carnage continued, the darkspawn oblivious to, or perhaps uncaring about, the fall of their leader. As yet another soldier fell with a loud cry, he turned away, unable to bear the endless slaughters, and the still-shining light on the Tower of Ishal caught his eye.

Their final hope, Ferelden's final hope, was there, in the form of a grieving red-haired girl and the bastard son who was suddenly the next in line for the throne. Alistair, whose only desires were freedom and a family, who deserved so much more than what he had been given, deserved another, better, chance for happiness. Oh, merciful Andraste, let him live.

And, as yet another wave of darkspawn approached, Duncan closed his eyes and prayed for the boy who, in another life, might have been his son. "Maker preserve him. Grant him peace. Grant him joy. Maker, please, _bring him home_."


End file.
